They’d left without saying “we love you” or “we’re proud of you” or even “get well soon.”
Just: “Call us when you’re discharged. We need to discuss what you’re going to do now that you can’t do that military thing anymore.”
That military thing. Twelve years of service reduced to a dismissive phrase, as if I’d been playing soldier instead of serving my country.
I walked inside, the screen door slamming behind me with a bang that made Knox lift his head briefly before settling back down. I laid the legal papers on the worn oak kitchen table—the table my grandfather, Poppy, had built with his own hands in 1955 from timber he’d milled himself.
I sat down and forced myself to read the fine print, the legal language that tried to make theft sound reasonable.
